I try to add a thought here
whenever I have one,
which is seldom;

most of the time I confess
I prefer to think of ordinary life
and its discontents;

most of the time
I can’t spell right and I end up
replacing words and such —

sometimes for
clarity, other times to
startle readers into

whatever I feel at the moment
regarding truth and lies and
their musical notes

as if I were at the helm
of a grand symphony,
or an intimate and profound

chamber ensemble; it is not
fitting to startle readers into
music in place of truth,

say the elders of the music world
or the elders of the poetry and
truth worlds, any worlds beyond

this one, really. At any rate
I know so little and when I die
or at least go, go beyond this

mundane world of trash at the curb
and sitting still, trying to decide
how it’s going to work, I will have

ghosts of music and poetry
to hold me in their supple arms
and no matter how disrupted

they appear, no matter how
damaged or re-formed they
have changed themselves to be,

I will have my moment — and that
will be all, will be enough to go on.
You will turn to your affairs soon enough.

It will not hurt, I promise.
It will only prompt you to say,
as I did, “how it all — the music,

the poetry — how
it all shines.” Then,
as I did, you will turn away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward.
T